


Empty

by rc1788



Series: Thunderhearts [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, WinterFalcon - Freeform, sambucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-12 17:43:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9082846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rc1788/pseuds/rc1788
Summary: Sam is pissed off because Bucky has been eating all the food in the fridge at the Avengers compound. But Sam's even more pissed that Bucky's been quiet lately.AKA Sam and Bucky ignore their feelings and fuck in the back of a car in the Denny's parking lot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I spent too long on a fic that ends with fucking in a Denny's parking lot and that is all I got to say, my guys.
> 
> as always I'm on tumblr ([@samwichwilson](http://samwichwilson.tumblr.com))

“Why are you eating everybody’s food?”

Barnes doesn’t look up, at first, as if Sam isn’t standing in the doorway to his bedroom gesturing at him.

“What are you talking about?” Barnes mumbles, eyes lifted from the journal in his hands and curtained by dirty hair.

“You are eating everybody’s food. I know it’s you.”

It started innocently enough when Sam saved two crab cakes in the refrigerator, with his name on them, and he meant to enjoy them the minute he got back from a recon flight. But the foil-wrapped treasures were gone from the fridge when he returned.

Then Natasha brought home pasta from “girls night with Sharon,” and that disappeared before dawn.

Clint made break and bake cookies “because it’s Wednesday,” and after the Avengers had their share, the remaining plate of cookies completely vanished. Plate and all.

Sam looks Barnes up and down, inspects the state of his room, as if he plans on finding the missing plate there. For evidence.

Barnes says nothing, his gaze traveling from Sam, to the floor, to the desk, then fading somewhere distant. Sam waits because he knows how Barnes can be when he tries to remember something. That’s when Sam notices the state of Barnes’s room--floor covered with clothing, papers, books, magazines. Mismatched socks on his feet, and face covered in stubble.

“Shit,” Barnes says. He throws himself backward onto the bed he’s sitting on, abandoning his journal, and placing both of his hands on his head. “Goddammit.”

Maybe Sam got a little intense about the issue. Maybe Sam purposefully made a turkey club sandwich, marked it SAM’S - DO NOT TOUCH, and left it in the fridge. Maybe Sam curled up on the couch to stakeout the kitchen that night, to find a shadow creeping down the hall just after 3AM and crack open the fridge. The light hit Barnes’s face and Sam _knew_ the petulant asshole was eating everybody’s clearly-marked food. Maybe Sam watched in horror over the edge of the couch as Barnes tore straight through Sam’s DO NOT TOUCH label to devour the sandwich. And without a word, Barnes disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.

“What?” Sam asks. His tone loses its edge as Barnes just lays there, groaning, like a kid that lost a little league game. “You didn’t know?”

Barnes snorts. “I sleepwalk.”

“New trick?”

“No, I… used to.”

“Oh.” Sam’s shoulders drop. He figures this conversation will turn into an argument, they’ll snipe at each other, and move on. Instead, Barnes is a defeated puddle of dirty pajamas, and now Sam has that gross feeling of _pity_.

Crossing into Barnes’s room, Sam settles himself on the edge of the bed. He’s still waiting for Barnes to snap back at him. Call him an asshole, at least. _Anything_. “So you’re sleep-eating everybody’s food like some housewife on Ambien.”

“If that’s what you wanna call it.” Barnes’s arms fall to his sides and he aims his eyes at Sam. “I’m sorry.”

It’s a lot. More than Sam expected. Or maybe _I’m sorry_ suddenly became easier for Barnes to say.

“It’s all right.” Sam smacks Barnes on the leg and gets up to leave. “Nevermind.”

 

* * *

 

Sam’s long forgotten his vendetta against Bucky for eating all the food when he returns from a mission flight at one in the morning. Exhausted, Sam throws himself on the couch and revels in the feeling of the couch cushions under him. Shuts his eyes and lets out a long breath. He’s almost asleep when he hears the refrigerator door shut.

Sam pushes himself up, isn’t sure why he’s so surprised to see Bucky standing over him.

“You okay?” Bucky asks.

“I’m tired.” Sam’s so tired that he can’t understand why he feels warmth in his chest rising into his cheeks. Bucky’s never asked that before. Their constant bickering is the only way they communicate, and it suits them, when opening up isn’t an option. Sometimes their insults make them smile when nothing else can. Lately, neither of them had any fight left in them. “You?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Me too.”

 

* * *

 

 _This is a stupid idea_ , Sam thinks as they get a table at Denny’s. It was a long drive to this place, but Bucky liked long boring night drives, and Sam caught a bit of shut eye. Now he has that half asleep haze mixed with the tingling behind his eyes that means he’s up, and up for the rest of the day.

They both order coffee.

“Still sleepwalking?” Sam hears himself ask.

“No… I dunno. I haven’t slept yet.”

Bucky busies himself with drinking the coffee. He’s got dark circles under his eyes, deep creases in his brow. His last shave was days ago, and judging by the ragged hoodie he wore, he probably hadn’t showered, either. Sam looks down at his hands wrapped around the warm mug of coffee and presses his lips into a frown.

“What?” Bucky asks. His voice is sharp and it’s nice to hear, Sam thinks.

“Nothing.”

“ _What_?”

“You’re depressed, man.”

“I’m not depressed. I’m not sad. I’m _tired_ .” Bucky gets defensive so easily that it’s damn near impossible to bring up anything with him. Sam doesn’t know how Steve can stand it. Maybe they read each other’s minds instead of actually _talking_.

“Yeah.” Sam reaches across the table and taps right in front of Bucky. “That’s called depression.”

Bucky doesn’t have an argument against that. He doesn’t know what it means to be depressed, doesn’t know how to put it into words. Except, maybe now he does. “So what do I do, _Doc_?”

“Get some help. You got that card, right?”

Bucky knows whose card Sam’s referring to. A therapist. He doesn’t say anything.

“Just… think about it. For me.”

“Okay.”

Sam knows it’s not his place to pressure Bucky into getting off his ass, and now that he’s said his piece, he’s not sure if it was the right thing to do. The last thing Bucky needs is somebody bossing him around. _Let him live_.

“Hey, Sam,” Bucky says.

“Yeah?”

Bucky looks up from his coffee mug with a sheepish smile. “I wasn’t sleep walking.”

“Goddammit, Barnes.” Sam’s laughing, mostly at himself. “I _knew_ it. Nat is gonna kick your ass.”

“Yeah… that’s what I was afraid of.”

“ _I’m_ gonna kick your ass.”

Bucky quirks a brow at Sam and levels a hard stare at him.

“No, seriously. I am.”

“Uh-huh.”

When the food arrives, Bucky eats like he’s never had a meal in his entire life. Sam stares at him for a few seconds. It’s a familiar sight. Autobiographical, even.

Getting discharged from the Air Force seemed like forever ago (and maybe it was, going on ten years), but Sam remembers those first awful days at home. For a few nights, the bed and the quiet let him sleep. Then the silence and the blankets kept him awake.

He’d shut his eyes, and there were explosions and crescendo of incoming missiles. There was Riley and his handsome smile, and then there was no Riley.

And Sam suffered in silence because it’s easier that way, easier than explaining to Mama why he’s so restless. He's beaten and he's empty and sometimes he's so angry he can't stand it. Mostly, though, Sam is numb.

Through it all, Mama took care of him. Made all his favorite food. On the days he had an appetite, he just ate and ate until he felt sick. At least then he _felt_ something.

Bucky is figuring out the breakfast sandwich on his plate. He takes the thing apart and eats the sausage, egg, cheese, and hashbrowns with a knife and fork and covered in syrup.

“You feel empty,” Sam says.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t hesitate. He accepts.

“And when you can’t sleep, you eat. Try to fill the void.”

Bucky shrugs, then he nods.

Sam nods, too, because he _knows_.

“You’re right, Sam,” Bucky says. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t _ever_ be sorry. Not for that.”

Bucky crinkles his nose. He reaches up and places his gloved metal hand on top of Sam’s. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Manage.”

The word lingers in Sam’s ears and he’s confused before he realizes how carefully he’s presented himself--to Steve, to Bucky, to everyone. Even when he’s open, he’s closed off the darkest parts of him. Nights where he wished he was flying near death PJ ops. Falling out of choppers. Ice-cold blood drowning his heart with fear and excitement and rage. It’s a hard feeling to shake when it comes back to you in the middle of the night in the room you used to sleep in as a kid. How do you explain to Mama you just wanna go jump out of a helicopter on the off-chance you die?

“I don't. I don't manage, Barnes.”

Bucky looks surprised, then his hand tightens around Sam’s. “Oh. Oh, shit, Sam. I'm a fucking idiot. I’m so sorry.”

Sam’s opposite hand squeezes tight, nails pressing into his palms, and he concentrates on that instead of the raw wound Bucky wants to dig into. Suddenly, Bucky’s hand on his feels heavy, then Bucky’s letting go and Sam reaches for him again. Sam looks into Bucky’s eyes and just shrugs. Fuck everyone who thinks he’s an expert at this. He isn’t. He’s just suffered the longest.

“It's okay,” Sam murmurs. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Whether or not things were okay changed from day to day. What got him through most days was knowing he got to restart tomorrow.

“If you…” Bucky folds in his lips and Sam swears the guy is being coy. How Bucky remembers how to look so sweet and innocent is beyond Sam. “Ever need to talk…” Bucky half smiles and squeezes Sam’s hand. “I'm here for you.”

Sam shakes his head, can’t help but grin. Two years ago, Sam thought Steve should stop searching for Bucky. Leave him on his own. Now that same guy is sitting across from him at a dirty Denny’s in the middle of nowhere offering to lend an ear. Sam had Steve for that now, but before Steve, it had been a lonely few years. Sam lifts his eyes to Bucky and says: “Thank you.”

They finish up their meals and leave. Bucky pauses just outside the door by the coin machines. He fishes around in his pockets for coins without any luck. Sam gets out a handful of change from his pocket and holds it out for him. “Here.”

Bucky smiles, and it’s not the biggest or best smile, but it suits the curve of his lips and flashes the whites of his teeth. “Thanks.”

Bucky gets a bunch of stickers and temporary tattoos and has more of a bounce in his step as he walks with Sam across the parking lot. He pats a sticker onto the front of Sam’s shirt that says PRINCESS over a heart, covered in sparkles. Sam laughs and it feels like forever since he’s laughed, and he slings an arm around Bucky, trying to get him into a headlock. Bucky jabs his elbow into his side to free himself and they’re both laughing and jostling each other until they reach the car. Sam grabs Bucky’s hood and flings it over his head, pulling it down over his face. “Hey!” Bucky shouts, then he retaliates.

Bucky grabs both of Sam’s wrists and shoves him up against the driver’s side door. Blue eyes blazing and searching Sam’s face for half a second, he springs forward and kisses Sam, pinning him to the car.

The past few weeks had been torture for Sam--he felt as if he hadn’t spoken to Bucky for a long time, and the absence felt like his chest had been hollowed out. He felt… empty.

Sam relishes in this kind of not-speaking as Bucky kisses and kisses and kisses him. Sam runs his hand over Bucky’s head, pushing back his hood, tangling his fingers in Bucky’s hair and holding him at the base of his neck. Sam sucks in a breath as Bucky’s teeth dig into his bottom lip, then he lets go and pulls back. Bucky releases Sam’s wrists and slides his hands inside Sam’s jacket for warmth. They stay like that, Bucky staring down at Sam, their foreheads touching, and Sam isn’t sure what Bucky’s waiting for. Sam’s mouth stings from the rough scratches of Bucky’s unshaven face, and all he can think about is kissing him more and more.

“Barnes,” Sam breathes. It’s insane how a minute ago he wanted to punch Bucky in his stupid face. Maybe just to avoid how much Sam wanted to kiss him.

“What?”

Sam reaches for the back door and opens it. Bucky looks at the door, then at him. “Here?”

Sam looks at the deserted parking lot and the restaurant that's far enough away no one could see the car too well, parked outside of the nearest street light. “If… you want?”

Bucky answers by grabbing the front of Sam’s shirt and pulling him into the back seat. Bucky crashes back into Sam, pinning him up against the door and kissing and kissing him. Sam is barely aware of Bucky tearing off the glove on his left hand so he can feel Sam up under his shirt. His thumbs graze over Sam’s chest, over the stiff peaks of his nipples as he feels the chilly air inside the car. The pads of Bucky’s thumbs are so drastically different--one warm and rough, the other cold and smooth--that Sam hears himself make a noise in response to the touch that he’s not sure he’s ever made before.

Bucky smirks into their kiss and tugs Sam’s jacket off, pulls away just long enough to yank Sam’s shirt over his head. Bucky drinks in the sight of Sam shirtless and his lips fold in. “Mm, you look good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bucky starts at Sam’s belt buckle, flinging the belt apart and making quick work of undoing his pants. Sam’s breaths are shallow and quick--he’s not sure he’s seen Bucky so adamantly horny before, and it’s really turning him on.

Then Bucky stops and looks up at him with those big dumb saucer eyes.  “Sam,” Bucky whispers.

“ _What_?” Sam growls.

“You really wanna fuck in the Denny’s parking lot?”

“We’re just gonna drive home from the backseat.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Barnes, _please_.”

Bucky’s grin is wicked and he shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve done it in weirder places.”

“Oh, _have_ you?” Sometimes Sam likes hearing about Bucky’s sexcapades with Steve, but now isn’t one of those times.

Bucky roughly pulls down Sam’s pants with the same wicked grin plastered to his face. “Not in the back of a car, though.”

Sam kicks off his shoes and socks and gets his pants off the rest of the way, then he pauses for half a beat to figure out just how he managed to get naked so quickly for Bucky Barnes. Maybe it wasn’t that hard to do. The guy got him going in so many ways--he was easy to tease and bicker with, and just as easy to kiss. Bucky hums, pleased with himself, eyeing Sam’s erection sprung free from his pants.

Sam remembers the one and only other time they fucked--in Bucky’s room, and they’d had a silent agreement not to talk about it. Maybe they were afraid it would change how they acted around each other. And it did, to an extent, because sometimes when Sam looks at Bucky he remembers how good Bucky fucked him in front of the TV right in the middle of the movie they were watching, and sometimes when he heard Bucky’s voice he remembers how Bucky said his name as he came. But the rest of the time they acted as if they were the frenemies everybody thought they were, and it works for them.

Sam watches with hunger in his eyes as Bucky slides his tongue over his lips and climbs down onto the floor, and Sam settles back into one of the seats. Bucky pushes his knees apart and sets himself up between Sam’s legs. He brushes his fingers along Sam’s inner thighs before moving in on Sam’s dick, teasing the shaft from bottom to tip with his tongue.

“Jesus,” Sam swears into the cold air. Bucky on his knees hovering over Sam’s dick is a beautiful sight, and Sam’s breath hitches in anticipation of Bucky swallowing him down.

Bucky’s mouth warm and wet over his length, and Sam’s muscles tense from the pure bliss of Bucky’s tongue, and his lips, and _oh, shit_ it’s been weeks since Sam’s felt this kind of release. His head rolls back and he stares up at the ceiling, tries to ground himself, but for _what_ ? Getting lost in the feeling of Bucky’s mouth on his cock is divine-- _otherworldly_ \--and Sam’s head is suddenly clear of everything but Bucky sucking his dick. Bucky pulls up, his eyes attentively watching Sam, lips teasing around the head of his dick before releasing him.

“Fuck, Barnes. Where’d you learn to give such good head?”

“From you.”

Sam’s brow crinkles and he looks at Bucky curiously. Bucky smirks, lets him dwell on that, before lowering his mouth to lap up the bead of precome leaking from the tip of Sam’s cock.

“Mm,” Sam hums. “ _Oh!_ ”

He remembers. They were in the showers, back at the compound, after a sparring session that ended up with Bucky pinning Sam to the ground. And instead of freeing himself, Sam let Bucky grind his hips against him until he was hard. Then they were kissing and grabbing at each other’s clothes until Sam had the decent thought to take it to the showers where there wasn’t a chance of being caught on the training cameras. So then Sam sucked Bucky off in the showers, and Bucky returned the favor by fisting Sam’s cock until he came, and afterward the got dressed and left like it had never happened.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, the absence of his mouth on Sam’s dick some cruel form of punishment. “I thought about you for _weeks_. You’re so good, Sammy.”

Sam leans back and folds his arms behind his head. Of _all_ the things to be proud of--and damn if he wasn’t proud of giving Bucky such good head he obsessed over it. The thought of Bucky jerking off to the memories of Sam sucking his dick is so good that Sam can feel his mouth watering. “Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah.” Bucky moans when he takes in Sam once more, pausing for a moment to speak and leave Sam craving his wet lips. “I wanna be good to you too.”

Bucky sucks down his cock again, his mouth so good and wet and _oh_ , Sam is not sure why he hasn’t let Bucky do this sooner because it’s been too damn long. Bucky moans over his dick, grips the insides of his thighs, nails digging into his skin, the prickling pain sending sparks up Sam’s spine. Sam stalls the urge to grab onto Bucky’s head and thread his fingers in his hair, and he lets Bucky go at his own pace while Sam keeps his arms folded behind his head. Sam’s muscles tighten and he’s so, so close--

“God-- _James_ \--”

Bucky sucks the orgasm right out of Sam, swallowing him down and moaning as he does, leaving Sam gasping and panting. Behind his pressed shut eyelids, all Sam sees are white sparks and his whole body feels electrified. It’s good to feel--so good just to _feel_ . His thoughts get hazy even as he’s coming down from his orgasm, his body twitching from the effort. His heart pounds in his chest and the release of all that tension is intoxicating. He just wants more and more of it. More and more of _Bucky_. Sam reaches his hands and cups Bucky’s head, swipes a thumb over his wet lips. Then he smirks because Bucky has taken out his own dick and started stroking himself.

“You’re still so hard,” Bucky remarks, raking his teeth over his bottom lip.

“Yeah,” Sam breathes, placing a hand on his chest as he continues to try and catch his breath. Even though the car is cold, he’s broken out in a sheen of sweat. _Damn_. “Jacket pocket.”

Bucky makes a frustrated grunt as he grabs for Sam’s jacket and starts rifling through it until he finds the unspoken prize in an inner pocket. A small bottle of lube, and Bucky’s smirking as he settles next to Sam on the car seat. “ _Really_?”

“You’re not the only one who’s fucked in weird places.” Sam rolls his eyes, but he really shouldn’t be that surprised that he’s getting sass from Bucky even after Bucky sucked him off. The guy is insufferable. Smirking, Sam gives Bucky a push back into the seat and he climbs over him, sitting straddled over his lap.

“Watch your head,” Bucky murmurs. Sam rolls his eyes at him. “Seriously,” Bucky says. He grips Sam’s sides, feeling him up and down, then he slides over his skin with a rough touch and settles his palms on Sam’s ass.

“This ain’t my first rodeo.” Sam’s eyes slide shut and a whine escapes him when the tip of Bucky’s metal finger rubs over his hole. Sam sucks in air between his teeth as Bucky feels him, tests inside of him with just the tip of his finger. “ _Ah_. Shit.”

“You’re really coming undone, Sammy,” Bucky purrs, and Sam manages to peek open one eye just to glare at him. “It’s a nice change.”

Sam’s about to protest whatever the fuck Bucky is going on about, but instead he whimpers as Bucky’s finger works in and out of him, slow--almost painfully so. “What,” Sam hisses, his breath hitching. Bucky’s finger is good, the cold metal inside of him making him feel a little raw and it’s so, so hard to concentrate on anything else.

“Nothing.” Bucky traces his flesh finger up Sam’s back, up his neck, until it’s sitting on Sam’s lips. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Oh, but it’s _something_ , and all Sam can do to keep from speaking is kiss Bucky’s finger. Then Sam closes his lips around the end of his finger and sucks on it. Bucky hums, pleased, eyes watching Sam’s mouth around his finger with intent.

Then the thought hits him--Sam thinks he knows what Bucky means. Bucky Barnes, who is vulnerable and afraid. Bucky Barnes, who’s only been himself for twenty-nine out of the ninety-five years he’s been alive, if the war even counts for him. Sam knows war changes you. Knows that he, himself, was a certain way before the war, and somebody _else_ on the other side. Chewed up and spit out. Bucky looks it, acts it, wears it in the tormented creases in his brow. Sam knows what it’s like to get kicked to the ground, over and over, until your soul’s just a bloody heap and living like that isn’t worth it anymore. It’s a lonely and painful way to be. Sam wonders if it’s worse to portray the facade that he’s fine and if draining his heart til it’s empty is even worth it. Those are the worst days for him. And he knows Bucky has bad days, too.

That’s how he knows Bucky, and Bucky knows him. Maybe more than they know themselves. And that’s an easy way to be, Sam thinks, as long as they’re with each other.

Sam lets Bucky’s finger go and looks at him with forced concentration, because, God, if the friction of Bucky’s finger pulsing in and out of his ass isn’t _fantastic_ . “Maybe I’ll come undone, just for you,” he murmurs, inclining his chin. “If you’re _good_.”

“Oh, Sam.” Bucky cups the side of his face and looks up at him with a strange sense of reverence Sam’s never seen before. Sam presses a kiss to his palm. “I’d _love_ that.”

Bucky crooks his finger inside of Sam and stretches him just-so, pulsing in and out of him. Sam’s legs clench up and he can’t resist the urge to move his hips with Bucky’s touch. He’s getting impatient for Bucky to be inside of him, but he can’t let on that he wants it this badly.

 _Says the man who let Bucky suck his dick_.

Sam grabs at the bottom of Bucky’s hoodie and starts to tug, grabbing up the fabric of his tshirt beneath, and he manages to pull the hoodie off of him with only a minor interruption to Bucky’s touches. He looks down at Bucky--softer than he remembered him, but it _had_ been a long time--and all Sam can do to cope with the sight of Bucky topless with his pants half pulled down is kiss him. Sloppy and rough and without any sort of finesse to be proud of, Sam laps his tongue in Bucky’s mouth and doesn’t care if he seems desperate and hungry because, for fuck’s sake, he _is_ desperate and hungry. His other hand searches and closes around Bucky’s hard cock and Sam fists the shaft, lets his thumb sloppily graze over the tip, and now Bucky’s the one whining. His kiss gets hungrier and hungrier, the softness of Bucky’s tongue sliding against his sharply contrasting with the scratch of Bucky’s scruff on his face. Sam will never admit to anybody that he likes Bucky like this--a little unkempt and smelling like his own unique smell--but he’s also so, so sure that he wants Bucky to feel better, too.

Bucky gets a second finger inside of Sam, and Sam interrupts the kiss with a whine he wished he’d never done. Bucky moans as he slides his tongue up Sam’s throat, kisses him on the jaw. “Sammy-- _baby_ , please. Can I fuck you now?”

“Mmhmm.” Sam takes the bottle of lube on the seat beside them and squeezes some into his hand, slathering it all over Bucky’s dick and giving him a few good and firm strokes.

“Ohh,” Bucky moans, and maybe it’s been awhile since anybody’s touched him, too. Bucky’s hands firmly grab Sam’s ass, and Sam makes a muffled noise of surprise as Bucky hefts him up and repositions his hips over Bucky’s dick. Sam steadies himself on Bucky’s shoulders, bites down on his lip. Hovering above Bucky, he turns his head down and presses the softest of kisses to Bucky’s lips just as Bucky pushes inside him. A small gasp escapes Sam and his head rolls back, and he sighs through the pressure of Bucky bottoming out in him.

“Fuck,” Sam says, wets his lips. “Yes.” He moves his hips up and down--slowly, savoring every inch of Bucky. Hands clasped on his hips with a gentle pressure allowing Sam to set the pace, and when Sam looks into Bucky’s fluttered-shut eyes, he watches the way his mouth drops open when Sam gets into his rhythm.

Bucky’s moans are muffled up against Sam’s skin as he kisses, licks, bites, sucks at his neck, chest, and shoulders. Bucky can’t seem to sit still, but Sam keeps his slow pace so he can watch Bucky savor every pass of his hips.

“You’re fucking--” Bucky throws back his head from where he’d been sucking on Sam’s neck and looks at his face. “Unreal. You’re so-- _ah_.”

Sam’s so pleased with himself he smirks and picks up the pace just enough to make Bucky lose his train of thought. Sam rakes his fingers into Bucky’s hair and exposes his neck, presses a few kisses from his collarbone up his jaw. Bucky is moaning into his ear, and Sam nips at the bottom of his ear, sucking on it.

“ _Shit_ , Sammy.” Bucky grabs at Sam’s ass with desperate pressing fingers until he readjusts his grip on Sam’s hips. “Can you come again, baby? Can you come all over me?”

“Yeah.” Sam nods, the thought of it making him move even faster, and _oh_ , that’s exactly what he needed. Bucky’s dick is too good and so big, and feeling full of Bucky is his everything. He’s already fighting back the intense pulse in his dick like he could come again any minute. Sam clenches and Bucky lets out a soft cry in his ear.

“Ooo, Jamie--Jamie _baby_ \--” Sam croons at him, fingers pulling at Bucky’s hair.

“Fuck. Fuck.” Bucky lifts his hips, fucking into Sam with rough thrusts, and he closes his flesh hand around Sam’s dick and starts stroking him.

Sam’s body is so warm and he’s sweating with the effort of fucking Bucky in earnest, and something about their touches and their attentiveness is making him think that this isn’t just a romp for either of them. This isn’t fucking, Sam fears, this is--this is _making love_ \--

“Oh, _oh_.” Sam spills onto Bucky's hand and chest. Sam’s coming again and it’s achingly good, his head swims with racing thoughts about loving Bucky Barnes like this, that their attraction isn’t just some repressed feelings mixed up with bitterness and spite. No, Sam thinks, he really loves this long-haired ninety-five year old, for some stupid goddamn reason and--

Shit, his dick is so good and thick in him, and what’s not to love about _that_?

“Yes,” Bucky says. “Yes, you’re so fucking beautiful when you come. _God_.” Bucky’s brow scrunches up and his mouth drops wide open. His chest clenches and Sam holds onto the hard muscles in his sides as he comes and comes. Bucky cries out, panting and breathless, his voice hoarse by the time he rides down his orgasm and looks up at Sam.

Sam slides off of him and they collapse into each seat in the car, panting in tandem. Sam puts his hand on his forehead and swipes at the layer of sweat.

“Fuck,” he says.

“Jesus,” Bucky swears. “That was--”

They turn their heads to look at each other, still naked and languid and sated in the back seat of a car in a parking lot.

“What the fuck,” Sam hears himself say.

It’s a matter of minutes for them to forget their orgasms and _oh, baby_ ’s when they clean up and get dressed and get to the front of the car to leave. Bucky drives, and Sam catches him glancing in his direction along the drive. Every time their eyes meet, Bucky blushes. It would be cute if it wasn’t so damn confusing. Sam reaches for the radio and turns on the oldies station, and they listen to motown and classic rock all the way back.

“So, was that… What _was_ that?” Bucky asks when they’re less than five minutes from home.

“We fucked.”

“I know, but.”

“We fucked each other in a Denny’s parking lot, Barnes.” Sam chides himself for resorting to the surname, but maybe he’s not ready to confront the thought that it was not, in fact, “fucking.” He folds his arms as if to emphasize his firm decision on the matter.

“Okay, yeah.” Bucky lets Sam think that, but the disappointment in his voice is heavy. “You, uhm.”

“Yeah?” Sam looks at Bucky, who is staring attentively at the road. The sun is starting to come up, the sky is dark gray and pink and purple. The way Bucky’s voice dropped really bothered him, and it shouldn’t have. They called each other awful names and criticized each other and even fought each other a little too hard in the training room. But Sam had never felt one ounce of guilt about making Bucky feel bad until that moment, and it was a dreadful feeling.

“You should open up more, Sam.”

Sam swallows and the retort is already out of his mouth before he can tell himself otherwise: “Your dick’s not _that_ big.”

“I mean about our talk earlier.” Bucky’s voice is firm and holds none of the playfulness of their usual bickering. He glances at Sam, waits for his answer.

Sam shakes his head, and silence fills the car and drowns the conversation. He hears an almost inaudible sigh from Bucky as he turns into the compound and scans through the security checkpoint. Bucky parks the car in the garage, and they both get out, pausing by the back of the car. Sam stuffs his hands in his pockets and shrugs at Bucky.

“Sam,” Bucky pleads.

“I’m going back to bed.” As Sam turns on his heels to head inside, Bucky snatches his arm and pulls him back. Sam crashes into Bucky, and Bucky captures him in a tight hug.

“Don’t do this.”

“Do _what_?”

“Act like it didn’t happen, like before. I mean, if you don’t want to be with me, that’s-- _fine_ , but--we need to talk about this. And us. And _you_ , Sam.”

Sam glares up at Bucky and does something stupid, which is kiss him again. Softly, savoring every inch of his lips. He tastes just a little bit like maple syrup.

“What about me?” Sam asks, their lips still almost touching.

“Don’t be afraid to talk. Don’t be afraid to--to be _vulnerable_. Okay?”

Bucky’s eyes are earnest and reverent and Sam can’t help the fluttering in his chest, the pull deep down in his stomach that’s not just being horny for the guy, but something _else_ , and it’s killing him. So he backs away from the sensation, snipes at Bucky instead. “You gotta call that therapist. No joke.”

“All right. I will. And we’ll talk more. Deal?”

Sam thinks he wants to do more than talk, and the way Bucky has cupped the side of his face and rubbed his cheek with his thumb makes him wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. Either way, Bucky holding him like this and staring deeply into his eyes makes his chest swell with what he hates to admit are _feelings_. Love, maybe, but he’s not ready to go there. What he knows is, it’s nice to hold on to any kind of thought that doesn’t make him feel like shit. He smiles and gently pulls out of Bucky’s arms. “Deal.”


End file.
